


Storm Front

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs Made Them Do It, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Forgiveness, M/M, Non-Consensual, Rape, Rough Sex, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Finch</i>," he breathes. Closing his eyes only makes his head spin harder. Suddenly it's difficult to think, more so with every passing second. "We have a problem."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Front

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YanaGoya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YanaGoya/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Storm Front (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508283) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> Takes place early season three. Minimal spoilers.

At least the place is isolated.

John's not big on collateral damage—never has been, but lately he takes it even more personally—and this is one mess that will clean up a whole lot easier with no one around to see it. The setup looks like a high school chemistry project gone wrong, sprawling across counter after counter in the otherwise vacant space. The ceiling is high, but the building feels more like a garage than a warehouse. It's vacant now, overgrown pavement stretching for three blocks in any direction outside. Just a tiny pocket of abandoned cement tucked away at the edges of the city.

John keeps to the shadows as he approaches the monstrous apparatus. There are beakers and test tubes and complicated piping. None of the burners are lit. The operation looks paused like an afterthought, a work in progress.

Not all of it's just in progress, though. One counter holds individual containers, clear-sided and tightly shut, all exactly the same size. Six ounces each, at a glance. The liquid inside is a sickly pink, exactly like the drug John is here to find. A stack of small crates has been piled on the floor, standing as high as the counter. The crates hold more of the same.

"Gotcha," John murmurs, then taps his earpiece. "Finch, I found the lab." 

"That's excellent news, Mr. Reese. Is there any sign of Donovan?"

"There's no one here." John inches closer, gun leveled at empty shadows. "But I see enough finished doses to do some serious damage. They look ready for pickup."

"Need any backup?" Shaw's voice cuts in on the line, and John smiles a thin, amused smile. If the lab is here, then Shaw's lead didn't pan out, which means she's back at the safe house with Finch. Chomping at the bit and probably furious that John's the one catching the action.

"I think I've got this under control," John murmurs. Which is of course the moment everything goes to hell.

"Who the fuck are you?" comes a wheezy voice John recognizes. He's been tailing Donovan for three days; he knows what the man sounds like. 

John pivots, gun raised, but Donovan isn't alone. He's flanked by three toughs, and behind him stand half a dozen burly shadows. Outnumbered doesn't necessarily mean outgunned—but considering what Finch has uncovered about the scale of this operation, John has to assume there's even more muscle lurking nearby.

"Good to see you, Donovan," John says with counterfeit cheerfulness. "I was hoping we might get the chance to talk."

"Talk about what?" Donovan scowls, has thin face twisting in an ugly frown. "How did you find this place? How do you know my name?"

John ignores the _why_ and the _how_ , and replies, "I've been trying to figure out what the point is. This drug of yours... It can't be commercially viable. No one in their right mind would take it willingly. So what's your angle? You can't expect to make your money back on the streets." It's a nasty piece of chemistry, and one Finch hasn't been able to unravel. Anything that fucks with brain chemistry, even temporarily, is a force to be respected and feared. But the newspapers have been aswarm with horror stories of this particular cocktail. Violence, as animalistic and murderous as John's ever seen. Incidents with nothing in common but a chemical signature.

"The streets aren't my target market," Donovan says with disdain. "They're my testing ground. Now that I can prove the drug's efficacy, there is no end of potential buyers. A tool like this... The rich and powerful will see it's value."

Quick as that, John understands the true scope of Donovan's plan. This isn't some designer drug gone wrong. It's a biological weapon. Spread by ingestion or physical contact—Finch was able to suss out that much—it would be terrifyingly easy to infect a community and watch people tear each other apart. Just like the awful cases that have been making the New York news, front page, over and over again.

"How does it work?" John asks, even though several of the toughs are inching around the periphery of the room to flank him. "How do a couple chemicals make violent killers out of ordinary people?" Even if Donovan answers, John's not likely to understand the nuances of brain chemistry, but that's not the point. As long as Donovan is talking, he's not giving the kill order. Leaving John time and space to maneuver and, just maybe, scrape through this ambush in one piece.

Donovan's laugh is a nasal sound. "The drug doesn't make them killers. It just takes off the blinders. Frees them. Absolves them. If the result is violence, that's their own fault. Not mine."

John's spine tightens at the careless words, the easy way Donovan sloughs the blame onto his victims. There's narrow truth in the words. The murders and near murders haven't been random. Old grudges. Lingering feuds brought violently to the surface. Every case has come with a history all its own, victims of the drug pushed over the edge into crimes of passion, but only in the direction their anger was already aimed. 

It doesn't exculpate Donovan. Not even a little.

"Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice in his ear, worry at what he's overhearing even though Reese hasn't reported just how badly he's outnumbered.

"Not now, Finch," John murmurs. He intends to ask more questions, stall for more time, but two of the toughs are already rushing him, and John can only react.

The fight crystallizes his focus, just like always, and John is methodical in dispatching Donovan's thugs. They're competent, and there are a lot of them, but the heavy shadows work in John's favor. The thugs fall, one by one, none of them landing more than a glancing blow. None of their bullets find their mark. Glass and equipment shatter carelessly as John throws his opponents around, not particularly caring if they land in something corrosive. Serves them right for picking a fight in a chemical laboratory. His own back collides with counters and beakers and clattering tools more than once, but there's no burn of acid, nothing to give him pause as he dispatches one opponent after another.

By the time every last one of them is down and restrained, Donovan has cleared out. That's fine, though. John's got no doubt Finch will be able to track him down. Meanwhile, Donovan's lab is compromised—not to mention a shambles—and John's going to make sure there's nothing to salvage. Those crates of Donovan's wonder drug aren't going anywhere.

But when John turns his head, looking for them, his breath catches as he realizes the pile of crates have tumbled, the contents shattered across counter and floor. He doesn't remember tossing any of his opponents that direction. But then, he got tossed around himself more than once.

Dizziness hits him abruptly, a fuzzy sensation that sets his teeth on edge. When he glances down at his gun hand, he finds the white cuff of his sleeve has been soaked a sickly pink.

" _Finch_ ," he breathes. Closing his eyes only makes his head spin harder. Suddenly it's difficult to think, more so with every passing second. "We have a problem."

"Are you hurt?" Finch's voice sounds thin. "Miss Shaw can—"

"No," John interrupts. "Not hurt. But I can't— There's—" He has to stop to drag in a ragged breath. His heart is doing its damnedest to beat straight out of his chest. "I caught a dose of the drug, Finch." He's compromised, and he's losing cohesion, and he is completely, utterly fucked.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold's voice has gone fuzzy, but John doesn't think it's the earpiece or the connection at fault. " _John_."

John's senses swim, storm and shadow crashing through him and carrying everything else away.

\- — - — - — - — -

"John, answer me," Harold repeats, even though the line has gone unmistakably dead. A chill sneaks beneath his skin, fear for his partner settling in his gut like lead. On the couch near the far window, Bear breathes a gruff sound, responding to the anxiety in Harold's voice. Nearer the door, Shaw is already a rush of motion, gathering her weapons, shrugging into her jacket. There's no other sound in the quiet loft as seconds turn into painful minutes, Harold staring helplessly at his computer screen.

"I can intercept him." Shaw fusses with her earpiece. "Keep me updated on his coordinates, Finch."

Harold opens his mouth to answer, but gapes for a moment at his computer instead. "That... won't be necessary, Miss Shaw."

Shaw sets her favorite gun down on an end table and approaches, peering at the screen over Harold's shoulder. She gapes at the tracking data on the screen. "He's coming here. Why is he coming here?"

"I don't know," Harold admits with complete honesty, but also with more than a touch of relief. John is coming _here_ , moving surprisingly quickly—they picked this particular safe house for its proximity to both of their best leads, after all—which means whatever effect the drug is having, it isn't sending him into a blind and murderous rage. If he's got enough sense to return, surely Harold can prevent him from hurting anyone.

"You need to get out," Shaw says, rounding the table once more and reclaiming her gun. "I'll wait for him. Try and take him down before he hurts someone."

She means without hurting him—Harold is sure of that much—but he's also certain of a less pleasant truth. "Miss Shaw, I think we both know restraint is not a viable option. You've read the reports, the damage done by untrained civilians. If you engage Reese in his current state, the odds are astronomical that one of you _will_ die. This is hardly an acceptable outcome."

"You got a better answer, Finch?"

"Yes," Harold says. "You leave. Immediately. See if you can track Donovan before he leaves the city. I'll confront Reese myself."

Shaw gives a disbelieving snort. "So he can kill _you_ instead?"

"I very much doubt he'll try to kill me." Harold isn't sure how to explain the certainty he feels, that whatever violence John intends, Harold will be able to deflect it. Certainly John harbors anger toward him—theirs is a complicated partnership—but anger is nowhere near the most powerful feeling that unites them. The purpose they share runs far deeper. If he faces John alone, surely John won't kill him.

But Harold is equally certain things will play out poorly for anyone who tries to put themselves in John's way. Even Shaw.

"I'm not leaving," Shaw says.

Harold blinks, rises from his seat. "I'm _ordering_ you to go, Miss Shaw." When she only juts her chin and clenches her jaw, Harold allows a softer tone. " _Please_. Go. I don't want to see you hurt. I can handle John, but I'm far less certain of my ability to protect you at the same time."

He can see the pulse of anger, her frustration at the idea that _she_ needs protecting. But he also sees the moment she decides to believe him. Her expression as she turns for the door is one of wrathful resignation.

"Miss Shaw," Harold says. "Please take Bear with you."

She does. And in their absence, the quiet apartment is eerily silent. Harold glances down at his computer screen, startled at how quickly John has moved. Almost here, already inside the building, which means there's _no time_. Not that time would make any difference. Harold is running entirely on instinct. There's nothing he can do to prepare for whatever storm front is about to burst through the safe house door.

The door smacks sharply against the brick wall when John shoulders through. It bangs shut just as loud, and John's eyes scour the room. When his gaze finds Harold he locks on hard, already closing the distance in long strides. The usual pleasant blank of his face has shattered and left something distressed and desperate in its wake. 

" _Harold_ ," John gasps, and it's not a human sound.

Fear and hope tangle inextricably in Harold's chest as John draws close. When John grabs him—when John shoves him against the bank of tinted windows—Harold can feel the way his partner's whole body is shaking. He can see the weight of violence tightening John's shoulders, holding him taut as a bow string. But John only closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together, drawing a ragged breath.

The second time John says Harold's name is quieter, but no less hurt, and John's hands tighten painfully where he's already holding on with bruising strength.

"It's all right, John," Harold murmurs, raising his hand to John's face with tentative caution. Harold doesn't allow himself to flinch at the wounded-animal noise John breathes at the touch. His own pulse is a chaotic rhythm in his chest, and even now he isn't certain how this will play out. Confident as he is of convincing John not to murder him, Harold doesn't have anything like a plan.

Instinct has brought him this far, but it doesn't tell him what comes next.

All things considered, it probably shouldn't come as a surprise when John kisses him. There's a fleeting moment of perfect stillness, and then the unexpected heat of John's mouth. Hard, forceful, an almost violent kiss that catches Harold entirely off guard. Quick as that, Harold understands what's coming—and what he has to do.

Perhaps it's ironic that he's thought about this before. Dozens, hundreds of times. A warm and guilty secret, because Harold would never risk taking advantage of his partner. John's overwhelming loyalty might well be enough to sway his judgment, to make him give Harold things John doesn't truly want. The man is built for martyrdom, and Harold has consistently made it his business to thwart those instincts.

But here and now, the press of John's mouth has nothing to do with Harold's fantasies, and _everything_ to do with what John needs. 

It's nothing like Harold imagined. There's no careful control in John's touch, no reining in of his enormous physical strength. There's nothing cautious at all in the way John's fierce kiss is already crossing the line towards _more_. Harold offers no resistance. He has no intention of refusing John anything.

When John breaks away on a desperate gasp, Harold simply says, "It's all right, John. I've got you. I'm here." Then he slips his knee between John's thighs, an offer of friction that makes John groan and curl forward against him, burying his face against Harold's throat as John's hips buck helplessly forward.

" _Harold_." John is clinging to him, fingers clenched in the back of Harold's vest, voice breathless and pleading.

"What do you need?" Harold murmurs, even though there's almost no point in asking. John only shakes harder against him. "John."

The sound of his own name sends a shudder through John, and he jerks back, letting go of fabric in favor of grasping for Harold's wrists and pinning them to either side of Harold's head. John stares at him with frantic confusion. Helpless. Lost. Holding Harold trapped against unyielding brick and glass. Harold's glasses sit askew on his face, a discomfort he can't remedy with his wrists pinned, but he doesn't care. His entire focus is for John, crushed close, breathing hard. The blatant heat and hardness of John's arousal is distracting where it presses against Harold's thigh.

Harold holds perfectly still and meets John's stare as steadily as he can, letting the moment draw slowly out between them. He is uncomfortably aware of his own heart, beating too hard and fast in his chest.

There's a tic in John's cheek to give away the clench of his jaw, and his grip tightens painfully—hard enough Harold has to school his expression to keep from flinching at the strength in those fingers. Violence is bleeding off of John, burning behind his unnatural stillness, flashing in his eyes as he stares down at Harold.

This could still go very, _very_ badly.

"Let me help you, John."

John's whole body shudders as though Harold has struck him a physical blow, but a moment later his fingers loosen. A cloud of something softer, if no less desperate, gentles the worst of the violence in his eyes.

"Please," John whispers. There's so much feeling in the word that suddenly Harold can't breathe.

But he can move. He slips his right hand free of John's slack fingers. He leaves the other where it is, leery of pushing his luck. He holds John's gaze, both of them all but motionless as Harold slips his right hand smoothly between their bodies, ghosting low where there's too little room to maneuver. Then, one-handed, he fumbles at the buckle of John's belt before shifting to the buttons of perfectly tailored pants.

The taut energy in John's shoulders isn't violence now—at least, it isn't _only_ violence—and Harold barely hesitates between conquering John's fly and slipping his hand inside.

John's breath hitches at the first brush of contact. A moment later he exhales a fractured moan, his eyes falling closed as Harold's fingers cup him, circle him, taking sure hold in the tightly confined space. There's something surreal in the tangible heat, the sensation of bare flesh against his palm. Harold has always been good at shutting his own fantasies down before they cross a line; he's never allowed them to carry him this far. He'll probably feel guilty later. For the moment, his entire focus is held by more urgent matters.

He doesn't try to work John at such a maddening disadvantage, instead draws him into the cool air where he can tease and stroke. Harold tightens his grasp when John's hips rut forward, John's cock fucking into the tight circle of his grip. John still holds Harold's left wrist immobile, the thoughtless clench of his fingers vice-like and uncomfortable once more.

With John's eyes closed, it's easier to look at him, to process the strain on his normally handsome face and catalogue the visible changes. The darkening of color at his cheeks, the panting between parted lips. The deep furrow at the center of his brow as Harold's efforts coax him steadily closer to climax.

Harold takes his time, using the familiar lines of John's face to warn him when he's drawing too close—easing back, easing off, keeping John on the cusp as long as he can. This is the only control Harold has, and he doesn't know how quickly the drug will clear John's system. He doesn't know how potent the dose, or how long he'll need to keep John distracted, how many minutes or hours before exhaustion overruns adrenaline and takes John safely out of commission.

So Harold stalls, even when John curls against him with an agonized groan, biting hard at Harold's throat like he's got no other way to ground himself. A moment later the fingers of John's free hand curl at the base of Harold's neck, startlingly and impossibly gentle.

It can't last forever. Eventually, despite Harold's best efforts to postpone the inevitable, John comes hot and slick over his fingers. John's shout is muffled against Harold's shoulder, his hands no longer gentle where they hold him. Harold ignores his own discomfort, keeps his touch light as he coaxes John over and through, tender through the aftershocks.

John all but collapses after. His weight is stifling, making Harold uncomfortably aware of the hard brick and cold glass at his back. Even now John is breathing too raggedly to give any illusion of calm, and Harold has no delusions—it won't be that easy.

"Thanks," John groans, and it could almost comical under different circumstances. Harold bites his tongue because there's no good reply he can make. Instead he silently wipes his hand on his own trousers—there's no point trying to spare his clothes at this juncture—then awkwardly straightens his glasses before shifting to rub small circles at the small of John's back. The touch is meant to be soothing, though it has no discernible effect. John remains tense against him, vibrating with barely contained energy.

Surprise hits Harold like vertigo when, with no warning whatsoever, John lets go and drops to his knees. John's eyes are open now, bright and feverish. He stares up at Harold from where John kneels at his feet. It's an inconvenient moment for Harold to realize he's hard. He's been so focused on John's need that his own reactions are only now registering, and the sight of John on his knees isn't helping at all.

Considering how abruptly, painfully aware he is of his own arousal, Harold can't believe he didn't notice.

But of course John did. So tightly focused on him, of course John noticed. And now John is on his knees like an offering, peering straight up into Harold's face, palms pressed in supplication to the fronts of Harold's thighs.

"Mr. Reese, I really don't think—" Harold tries to protest but chokes to silence when John nuzzles forward against him. John's eyes fall shut as his breath shudders hotly over the fabric of Harold's trousers.

" _Please_ ," John breathes, and he's already reaching, struggling with Harold's belt, yanking at his fly and scattering buttons in his impatience.

Harold has only seconds to consider his options, but it's quick work reaching the only viable choice. Of course he's going to let this happen. His own flush of guilt is irrelevant. No good can come of fighting John now.

John's mouth on him is clumsy a moment later, and surely the drug is to blame; John is so determined and precise in everything he does. And clumsy or not, John's mouth is incredible. It isn't long before Harold is struggling to fend off his own orgasm, gasping helplessly as he draws close. Somehow, without Harold's permission, his hand has curled at the back of John's head. His fingers card through short hair, encouraging, grip tightening as John's efforts drag him inexorably closer. Embarrassing sounds are escaping Harold's throat now, but if anything they just goad John to draw him deeper, suck harder, hollowing his cheeks around Harold's cock.

Here too, Harold can only resist the inevitable for so long. He tries to warn John—gasps his partner's name—but John only bobs low over his cock and swallows, deliberately.

Harold's head feels fuzzy in the moments after, his release leaving him lethargic. A moment later, John's arms slip about his waist, face pressing hard to Harold's stomach. For an instant Harold thinks John might be crying. But John is too quiet—shaking, but not from tears—just the trembling of too much adrenaline, too much need, as his body tries and fails to fight the toxins of Donovan's drug.

Harold doubts this is a true reprieve. But perhaps if he manages to extricate himself from John's arms, he can at least get his partner hydrated. John is in bad shape, but water might help a little.

Harold makes no immediate move. He waits, strokes his fingers through John's hair, petting him cautiously—trying not to think about Shaw calling John a poorly socialized guard dog.

Eventually, realizing John is as calm as he can reasonably hope for, Harold falls perfectly still. 

"If I get you some water, will you drink it?" he asks in a quiet, cautious voice. John doesn't stir at the question, so Harold eases from the circle of his arms, edging away from the wall a millimeter at a time. John collapses forward with Harold's absence, forehead pressing to the rough brick beneath high windows, his hands tightly fisted and arms wrapping about himself.

Harold moves quickly now that he's free, straight for the small fridge in the corner and the bottled water inside it. He tucks himself awkwardly away as he moves, the best he can without being able to fasten the buttons John damaged in his haste. There are handcuffs in the closet John's been using as a smaller version of his personal armory, and Harold wonders if he should try for them. If John is docile enough, he might allow himself to be restrained.

Harold pauses once he has the water in his hand, halting beside the table to twist the cap off. The plastic bottle is cold against his skin, and he tosses the cap onto the table with a rattle. His hands are shaking. He resists the urge to turn and look at John—that image is already burned indelibly into his brain—and takes a halting sip of the water himself, surprised at how good it feels sliding down his throat. He takes a second, steadier drink before beginning to turn from the table.

He's barely shifted his weight before a familiar wall of muscle and heat closes in on him from behind. The open bottle of water drops from his startled grip, falling to the floor and spilling, ignored. Harold draws a gasp of breath as one of John's hands finds his hip, gripping tightly, and the other slips low over his stomach. There's something quietly possessive in the touch, in the line of John's body bracketing him in. Harold's chest feels suddenly tight, and it takes every ounce of willpower to choke down a burst of laughter too close to hysteria when he imagines trying to explain: there's no need to be territorial; no one else has ever owned Harold the way John does.

From behind him, John nudges close, pressing a kiss to the scars at the nape of Harold's neck before nuzzling at the side of his throat. John is shaking harder than before, and his hand at Harold's hip tightens, just shy of painful.

"I'm losing it, Harold," John whispers, the words ragged with feeling. "I need—" John hesitates over a rough inhale, a patchy groan, and tries again. "I need—"

Harold presses his hands flat atop the table. "Anything, Mr. Reese." Because despite the fierce racket Harold's heart is making in his chest, there's nothing John can possibly want of him that Harold will refuse to give.

It's somehow no surprise at all when John's strong hands force Harold down, bending him forward over the table. John handles him roughly, but somehow even overwhelmed with need he's mindful of Harold's physical limitations, gentle when his fingers brush the back of his neck. Suddenly Harold can't breathe, and he fumbles for his tie, tugs it loose, yanks at the topmost buttons of his stiff collar until his throat can work around the air he needs. John doesn't seem to have noticed, too focused on Harold's pants, dragging creased fabric down to Harold's knees and exposing his ass to the cool air.

Then John is _there_ , braced along Harold's back, breathing heavily in his ear. John's fingers are nowhere near slick enough as they nudge inside, but Harold doesn't protest, just gasps with the effort of relaxing his body around those long digits, parting his legs the best he can with his trousers still bunched at his knees. John's fingers work him slowly, not patient exactly, but determined. Stubborn. It hurts—of course it hurts, it's been far too long—but Harold's body gradually relaxes, his muscles easing to allow John deeper, until there's pleasure mounting right alongside.

It's been years since anyone touched Harold this way. It's been a long time since he wanted it. Now, with John's weight hot along his back and John's touch curling cleverly inside him, Harold can't believe how badly he wants more than just John's fingers. His own cock aches with renewed arousal, but he keeps his hands flat on the table. Waiting. Because this isn't about Harold and the things he's been hiding from himself. This is about John, and Harold draws a shaky breath as those clever fingers finally disappear.

A moment later comes the sound of John spitting into his hand, a quick, quiet slide of skin across skin, and then the head of John's cock nudging inside. Harold groans as John slots home, Harold's eyes falling closed at the sensation of being _too full_ , John's girth far more substantial than his exploring fingers. The stillness is a blessing, giving him time to adjust, to will his body to relax past the discomfort and then welcome other, more pleasant sensations. His own cock is still hard, and he focuses on that, on the heat flushing his skin, the warmth of John's hands.

The sensation of belonging irrevocably to the man holding him down.

Then John moves, and all Harold can do is ride out the storm. As John's stillness dissolves, something more frantic sets him to motion, and he fucks Harold in earnest. His thrusts are rough and unrelenting, jarring Harold, rocking the table despite its sturdy construction. There's nothing cruel in John's movements—even in this frenzy of almost animal desperation, he touches Harold with reverence. Reaches forward to stroke Harold in time with every thrust. The sensations are so overwhelming Harold barely notices the noisy clatter of his computer crashing to the floor on the other side of the table.

Harold's second orgasm whites the world out around the edges.

John is still fucking him when Harold regains coherent thought. The rough, steady rhythm gives no sign of abating. Harold gasps, groans—god, he's exhausted, his every nerve over-sensitive—and he presses his forehead to the cool wood of the table. His glasses are gone. He doesn't remember taking them off. He doesn't care.

" _John_ ," he breathes, then bites off a startled sound when John goes suddenly, perfectly still inside him. 

"It's not enough," John whispers. And then, as though picking up an aborted mantra, "I need—"

Before Harold can offer any answer at all, John is stepping back, cock slipping abruptly free from Harold's body and eliciting a startled sound more like a whimper than Harold wants to admit.

Even if he wanted to put up a fight—even if it weren't far too late—Harold would be too exhausted to resist as John manhandles him up from the table and shoves him toward the bed, around the corner at the far end of the loft. John seems barely steadier on his feet than Harold feels, but somehow he propels Harold back and back, stripping them both with surprising deftness along the way. They leave a trail of rumpled fabric on the floor. Harold's vest and tie fall first. The rest follows, and he can't stop himself gaping in tired but open appreciation when John shrugs out of his shirt, offering an unobstructed view of scarred and muscled chest.

By the time Harold's back hits the mattress, there's not a stitch of clothing left between them. There's only John's naked weight bearing Harold down, settling between his thighs, smooth and hot and overwhelmingly intimate. He's ready when John's hips thrust forward, when he fucks into Harold again, and it's better like this. Better and so, so much worse. Because John's eyes are open, and he's staring straight down at Harold with every thrust—staring straight through him like he can see every secret Harold has ever possessed, ugly and beautiful both—and Harold can't look away, even when his chest begins to ache with too much feeling.

Harold's own cock gives a faint twitch of interest, but two orgasms in one night is well past his limit. He's definitely not going to be up for another so soon. But John is close now, braced on his elbows, eyes falling unwillingly closed. Harold rides with John's thrusts as they grow erratic. He strokes gentling hands along John's flank, his chest, his back. He barely notices his own discomforts, because no matter how brutal John's thrusts—no matter how roughly John is claiming him—Harold can weather the worst of it.

The bruises John is grasping into his skin will fade, as will the more deep-seated aches and pains already settling into his overtaxed body. Harold is no stranger to pain. Hell, Harold stood on a rooftop prepared for his world to end in an explosion of semtex, because the alternative was losing John. This is easy by comparison.

John's weight has fallen harder atop Harold now, his pace losing any semblance of rhythm, his forehead pressed to the junction of Harold's neck and shoulder as John's breathing goes ragged.

" _Harold_ ," he groans as he comes.

John holds rigid for long seconds, then collapses all the more heavily—heavy enough for Harold to realize that, even right at the edge of orgasm, John was bracing himself a little. Now, boneless and sated, John is a crushing weight, almost too much for Harold to bear.

Something tells him John is finally tapped out. Not just the exhausted weight of him, but the way his breathing is beginning to steady and slow.

Perhaps it's tempting fate to speak, but the alternative is far too uncomfortable to consider. Harold keeps his voice low, his hands still gentle on John's skin as he says, "Mr. Reese, I don't mean to complain... But I'm afraid you're quite heavy."

For a moment, he's honestly not sure John has heard him. Then John heaves an enormous breath and shifts between Harold's thighs, sliding his softening cock out of Harold's body and dropping to the side in a satisfied tumble of limbs. Harold shifts his weight to look at him, and almost smiles despite himself. John looks dead to the world, his eyes heavily closed, chest rising and falling in a gradual rhythm. Beautiful despite the gaunt shadows fatigue has painted across his face.

Harold moves cautiously toward the edge of the bed. At least, he tries to. He's not entirely surprised when John doesn't let him go. He wants to protest. He aches everywhere, from his ass to his hips to the muscles of his back. He wants a mug of hot tea, not to mention some powerful aspirin and a long shower. But John's reaching grasp is unyielding, and Harold allows himself to go slack, arranging himself as comfortably as he can on his back. 

Beside him, John mutters an incoherent sound of contentment and curls close.

\- — - — - — - — -

John wakes to disorientation and a pounding headache.

He doesn't open his eyes, doesn't move, doesn't do anything at all to give away the fact that he's conscious. Now that he's awake, his pained senses are on high alert, and he takes cautious stock of his surroundings. His mouth is dry, his eyes gritty, and his left arm tingles on the verge of numbness. He's not on a floor—a bed maybe—somewhere soft and clean. The place smells familiar.

When he slits his eyes open, he realizes exactly where he is. He knows this safe house. Finch made him help choose the decor.

A moment later Finch's voice breaks into the quiet, though he isn't in John's narrow line of sight. His voice sounds worried but not frantic as he says, "There's no need to be a hero, Miss Shaw. Destroy the facility and leave Donovan to the authorities. The trail I've laid should be sufficient. He won't evade them." When John tries to parse Finch's words his head only throbs harder. There's a brief pause, and then Finch continues, "No, but thank you. There's no need."

John shifts, confident there's no immediate threat, and blinks reluctant eyes open to daylight. He _is_ in the safe house bed. Cuffed to the sturdy headboard by his left wrist.

And he's naked.

"I assure you, we're both fine," Finch murmurs too softly, reassuring Shaw over the phone line. "No real damage done."

New confusion furrows John's brow, and he sits up slowly, eyeing the glint of metal circling his wrist. His head isn't the only thing that aches. His throat feels dry and raw, and there's an ugly twist in his gut, the dizziness of dehydration and chemical hangover.

"Finch," he rasps, and Harold appears around the corner looking as alert and pristine as ever.

Finch is moving more stiffly than usual. Not just stiffly, John realizes. Gingerly. Like every step is costing him and he's doing his damnedest not to show it.

"Finch, what the hell?" The cuff rattles as John sits up straighter, but somehow the fact that he's chained to the bed isn't making it onto his priority list at the moment. "You're hurt."

"That's not at all important." Finch waves the concern away as he approaches. But he's uncharacteristically cautious—wary—as he hands Reese a couple of potent painkillers and then a full glass of cool water, before subsiding to stand nearby. "How are you feeling, Mr. Reese?"

"Like I got into a fight with a semi on the interstate. What happened?"

Something in the way Finch pauses at the question sets off a warning pulse beneath John's skin. He hesitates halfway through downing the glass of water to give Finch an even sharper look.

"You should finish drinking that." Finch nods toward the glass. "You're severely dehydrated. I'll just... Find the key to those cuffs." John iso so accustomed to following Finch's orders that the glass is empty before it occurs to him to wonder why he's handcuffed in the first place.

Then Finch is back, leaning over John to unlock his wrist. The skin is undamaged, if irritated, which means John can't have been straining against the metal.

It's only as Finch gets close that John glimpses a dark bruise barely visible above the edge of Finch's collar. Small, deliberate-looking, suggestive. A bruise that definitely wasn't there yesterday; John watches Finch closely enough to know.

Abruptly, John remembers that he's _naked_. And just as the clues start shaking out to an unwelcome conclusion, scraps of memory fly in from left field to fill in the blanks. Donovan's lab, physical contact with that damn drug, a powerful surge of panic. Disorientation falling somehow secondary to the knowledge that he had to reach Harold, even as the pavement and streetlights in front of him wobbled with every step—

And then Harold. Oh, fuck. _Harold_.

John recoils before Finch finishes removing the now slack cuff from its anchor point. He recoils so hard his back hits the wall, and if the wall weren't there he would definitely be landing on the floor from excess momentum. Finch blinks at him in surprise, but John can only stare, gutted with guilt and struggling not to heave.

Surprised confusion clears to be replaced with a gentler version of Finch's problem-to-be-solved face, and he says, "You do remember. I wasn't entirely sure you would." Then, with far too much kindness, "John—"

"I'm sorry," John breathes on a wrecked whisper.

Harold only looks at him from where he's settled on the very edge of the mattress. Perfectly collected. John doesn't know how he can look so at ease after—

"You'll want a shower, I assume," Finch's steady voice interrupts the ugly avalanche of John's thoughts. "There's plenty of hot water. And I took the liberty of obtaining breakfast before you woke."

"Breakfast," John echoes dubiously.

But after another moment Finch simply stands and turns his back, giving John privacy to make for the bathroom. John rises unsteadily. He flinches at the metallic clink of the handcuffs when Finch sets them on the table, but John keeps moving.

The shower doesn't help. He still feels like shit afterwards. Worse, the steady rhythm of water gives his brain plenty of time to conjure up more pieces of his fragmented memories. The clearer picture isn't any prettier. 

When he emerges—dressed, because Finch left a clean suit and shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door—there's no sign of the handcuffs on the table. Or, strangely enough, Finch's computer where John last remembers seeing it. There's only breakfast. Eggs and hash browns in takeout styrofoam, probably from the diner down the street. The savory smells make John's stomach clench, and he can't imagine eating. Surely if he tries, everything will just come right back up again.

"I know it's not appealing right now," Finch says softly, standing between the table and the window behind it, "But you need to eat. Your system has been through chemical hell in the past seven hours."

"What about you?" John says, not sure if he means about the breakfast or the hell. Finch's mouth purses.

"I already ate." It's not a lie—Finch doesn't lie to him. But John doubts he ate enough to really count. 

John sits anyway, watching Finch raise the mug of tea for a short sip. There are heavy shadows beneath Finch's eyes, visible even behind the thick frames of his glasses. Raw exhaustion. John knows the feeling.

He eats mechanically, because Finch is right. And after the first difficult bites, John's stomach grudgingly settles, and he starts to feel a little better. Physically, anyway. Finch refills the water glass for him more than once in what is otherwise one of the more awful silences John has experienced. Finch doesn't sit. John isn't exactly surprised.

Eventually the taut quiet has to break. And it's John who breaks it, pushing aside the vestiges of breakfast. "How badly did I hurt you?"

Finch regards him, owlish behind his glasses, mug of tea pausing halfway to his mouth. John can _see_ the careful way he's considering his answer, and John's gut tightens as he waits.

Eventually, quietly, Harold answers, "You did me no lasting harm."

It's meant to let John off the hook, but it's a condemnation just the same. Confirmation of the things John has been sluggishly remembering from last night. Of course he hurt Harold. Hell, John didn't just hurt him. Not all harms are physical. It's a wonder Harold can look him in the eye.

Suddenly John can't return the favor any longer. He pushes back from the table, wordless and abrupt, and stands on shaky legs. He can't stay here another second. Running now might be the most cowardly thing John has ever done, but he does it. He's out the door before Finch can try to stop him—before Finch can so much as breathe a syllable of protest—out into the hall, and then down to the street. _Away_. John doesn't even care where.

Finch won't follow him. John is sure of it.

\- — - — - — - — -

Harold gives John plenty of space. Doesn't follow him, doesn't call, doesn't suggest he return to take Bear when Shaw brings the dog back to the library. This is the very least he can do, giving John time to work things through in his own head.

Of course, giving John space doesn't mean turning his back. Harold keeps close tabs on his partner during those uncomfortable days of quiet. If John tries to buy a plane ticket, tries to put New York behind him, Harold needs to know. He doubts John would put himself out of reach—they still have a job to do—but Harold doesn't like leaving anything to chance.

For a week there are no new numbers. It's unusual, but not unprecedented. Harold still finds himself wondering suspiciously if the machine is deliberately benching them. He hopes not. They wouldn't be at their best in the field right now, but to those who need it, their help would still be a far sight better than nothing.

John keeps his distance the entire week. By day seven, Harold realizes he can't keep waiting for John to come to him. Whether the lack of new numbers is meaningful or not, they can't continue like this. There is far too much at stake.

He gives no warning before his arrival at John's apartment, all too aware that John would take the opportunity to bolt and keep right on avoiding him. If John hasn't willingly surfaced by now, he's not apt to make this easy. The element of surprise is the only advantage Harold has.

He brings Bear with him. Not because he requires any extra armor himself—he isn't afraid of John—but because he suspects the dog's presence will put John more at ease. The fact that John isn't currently home hardly matters. Harold lets himself into the empty apartment and lets Bear off his leash. Bear immediately makes for an enormous chew toy in the corner. Harold makes just as quickly for the kitchen, to heat himself a cup of tea—John keeps several varieties on hand despite favoring coffee—then settles on the blocky couch to wait for John's return.

John is barely through the door, scratching Bear behind the ears, when he asks, "What are you doing here, Finch?"

Harold's mug is nearly empty, and he sets it down on the coffee table. He doesn't rise or look directly at the door. "You've been avoiding me, Mr. Reese."

"Do we have a new number?"

"No."

It's surreal indeed to exchange so many words without looking John in the eye. After a painful moment, John rounds the perimeter of the room. There's no subtlety at all in the way he keeps the widest physical distance between them, or in the way he puts himself deliberately in Harold's line of sight. Harold's eyes track every step, but John is still stubbornly not looking at him. Eventually he stops at the wide open wall of windows, both hands in his pockets as he faces out through the glass, showing Harold the tense line of his back.

"I thought," Harold begins cautiously, "perhaps we were overdue for a debrief."

"A debrief." John snorts a short, humorless burst of laughter.

"We _do_ need to talk, Mr. Reese. This radio silence isn't sustainable. It's only a matter of time before someone needs our help."

John takes his hands out of his pockets and presses them flat to the window glass. Leaning forward, he looks as dejected as Harold has ever seen him, but it isn't the weary line of broad shoulders that catches Harold's attention. It's John's hands, strong and competent and familiar. Distracting.

Harold startles back into his own head at the guilty realization that he's staring, but John doesn't seem to have noticed. John seems to be doing his best not to notice Harold at all.

"You're right," John says. His voice is grudging and thick, unhappy that Harold has forced his hand. "We need to talk."

Considering the palpable tension filling the enormous room, it's no surprise when Bear sneaks toward the couch and props his head over Harold's knee, peering up with a wordless plea for reassurance. Harold takes pity, scratching the back of Bear's head, the scruff of his neck.

He keeps his eyes on Bear but says, low and emphatic, "It wasn't your fault, John."

In his peripheral vision, John gives a visible start. When Harold raises his eyes, he finds John half-turned from the window and staring at him in wide-open disbelief.

"Don't look at me like that," Harold says as lightly as he can manage. "I mean it quite sincerely."

"I hurt you."

"I'm fine." It's true. Harold is under no delusions about which of them suffered the greater harm from Donovan's drug. "For what it's worth, I was prepared for any number of outcomes when I engaged with you that night." Not this, perhaps—not initially—but Harold has always been adaptable.

John chokes back a disbelieving noise. His expression is still aghast. Harold purses his lips in frustration, wishing he had any idea how to make John _listen_.

Eventually John says, "I need to leave."

Harold is the one gaping this time, refusal clenching tight in his chest. "Leave? Where? For how long?" The urgency in his voice upsets Bear, who sits back on his haunches and whuffs an anxious sound.

But John has gone back to stubbornly _not_ looking at Harold. "I've thought this through, Finch. I can't stay."

"Of course you can stay." Harold rises to his feet, too quickly for conscious thought. He crosses the wide apartment, putting himself directly in John's line of sight. There's permanence in what John is suggesting, and Harold won't stand for it. "I need you _here_ , Mr. Reese. Whatever our personal difficulties, surely you can see that."

"You've got Shaw."

"Shaw isn't _you_ ," Harold nearly shouts, and Bear barks somewhere behind him. Harold carefully lowers his voice and drops his gaze to the floor, because right this moment he doesn't dare look John in the face. "Miss Shaw is more than competent. An able employee."

"Then what's the problem?" John's voice is thick with cautious gravel, and Harold chances raising his eyes. He can't read anything at all through the controlled, cryptic blank of John's expression.

"I don't need an employee, Mr. Reese. I need a partner. I can't do this without you."

"You'll manage."

"Why are you talking like this? You can't honestly think things would be better if you left."

There's guilt in John's silence this time, fraught and unmistakable. Guilt running deeper than Harold realized. Stark and crushed.

"You say it wasn't my fault," John starts, haltingly, "but you don't know. You don't even—" The words cut short with a visible clench of John's jaw.

Ignoring every warning at the back of his head, Harold presses, "What don't I know?"

John draws a ragged breath. "Do you think random chance brought me back to the safe house that night? It didn't, Harold. I was half out of my mind, and I still came for _you_. So, go ahead. Tell me I'm not culpable."

Harold gapes openly, because John has spoken the words as though this is meant to be new information. It isn't. Harold may not have been certain of John's intentions until things took a carnal turn, but even so. There's a reason he sent Shaw away. There's a reason Harold stayed. John's words change nothing at all about the situation. They certainly haven't inspired Harold to allow John the enormous share of guilt he seems determined to claim.

"Nothing you say will make me blame you, Mr. Reese. You weren't yourself, and the situation was well out of our control."

"You're not _listening_ ," John hisses, looming suddenly larger in Harold's space. "You shouldn't have been in the line of fire. You _wouldn't_ have been if I weren't—" 

Harold waits, but the rest of the sentence doesn't come. John has clammed up as suddenly as he exploded, his eyes darting away from Harold, masking secrets too close to the surface.

"If you weren't what?" Harold says. When he receives no reply, he presses gently, "John."

John inhales shakily. He still won't look at Harold as he whispers, "If I weren't already compromised."

"Oh," Harold breathes.

John scowls, his jaw clenched in silence.

But even this isn't truly a surprise. Harold has entertained suspicions, though he's never been sure. There's really no other explanation for the way John reacted to Donovan's chemicals. The way he came straight for Harold, the way he pleaded and touched and took without hesitation... Yes, of course John had already been compromised. Probably for months.

There's painful irony in the fact that Harold has been compromised even longer.

He never intended for John to know. There's too great a disparity of power between them, and John has always been too self-sacrificing for his own good. 

Yet if Harold had known John felt the same...

If Harold had known, nothing would have changed. He still would have held his peace. There's a vast gulf of difference between wanting something and having any right to take it.

But the stakes are different now. They haven't so much crossed this bridge as burned it down and left it smoldering behind them. Considering the mess it's left between them, Harold isn't likely to worsen the situation simply by admitting the truth.

"Mr. Reese... John. This is not easy for me to admit, but you have a right to know..." He hesitates, not out of fear or nervousness—he's left those feelings far, far behind him now—but instead for the simple fact that these are difficult things to express. Harold has never possessed the knack for emotional conversations, and he's long out of practice putting his feelings into words. Eventually, awkwardly aware of John's eyes on him, he admits, "You are not the only member of this partnership to find himself... Compromised."

Silence greets his admission.

Harold forces himself to look John in the face and continue, "If you're ever interested in exploring the possibilities under more pleasant circumstances, you need only ask."

In their years working together, Harold has seen a great many shades of surprise cross John's face. Amazement, incredulity, awe. He's never seen John look quite so thoroughly dumbstruck. He waits now, masking his impatience in perfect stillness. He won't pressure John into anything. He'll wait for an honest response. Though if John still insists on leaving, Harold doesn't know what he'll do.

"Harold..." There's dawning comprehension in John's voice. "Did you just proposition me?"

Harold's skin flushes warm. "That _was_ my intention, yes." Self-consciousness edges his words when he continues, "Though of course, if you're not interested, I completely understand."

"You can't be serious."

"Can't I?" Harold asks, pleased at how steady he manages to sound.

John keeps staring at him, as though he thinks sustained silence will call Harold's bluff. But this is no bluff, nor does it have to be a stalemate. Harold doesn't need an answer right now.

Eventually, he gathers Bear's leash, clipping it to Bear's collar when the dog takes it as a signal to approach. Harold straightens, pauses before heading for the door. "Give it some thought, Mr. Reese. The offer stands. Take as long as you need."

When he leaves, he can feel John's eyes following his every step.

\- — - — - — - — -

John spends two days delaying, agonizing over Finch's offer. Trying without success to work out the reason behind it. If there's an angle to make sense of, John can't seem to suss it out.

It feels like the punchline to the world's worst—and best—joke when he realizes: the obvious _is_ the only possible reason. Difficult as it is to believe Finch might be genuinely interested, it's the only explanation. John is a spy. Reading people is his _job_. If Finch's offer were anything but earnest, it would only postpone the inevitable. He couldn't hope to fool John, which means it would be a terrible way to con him into staying.

Hard as the revelation is to credit, Harold's offer is sincere.

Worse, John has been remembering. More pieces, more details—things he hasn't dared to trust. A glint of hunger in Harold's eyes when John first dropped to his knees. A spark of genuine heat, Harold's mouth responding when John kissed him. Harold's gentling hands on him, and the comforting murmur of Harold's voice saying, "It's all right, John. I've got you. I'm here."

It shouldn't be possible. Finch can't want him. John is damaged goods. Even without this new and ugly wrong between them, Finch deserves better. And with recent events stacked up against them, how can Harold look him in the eye, let alone share the distraction that's been straining John's control for months? How can Harold mean what he said?

But Harold has never lied to John.

Never.

There have been half-truths and omissions. There have been secrets. But lies? Not once. Finch promised when he offered John a job, and he's never broken his word. For all the voices of doubt clamoring in his head, John can't convince himself Finch is lying now.

Which leaves him no choice but to take the improbable proposition at face value.

It can't be this straightforward. Except maybe it is. And once the thought lodges inside his skull, there's no going back. John can protest all he wants, but the truth is he's not strong enough to walk away.

So he goes to the library. It's the first time he's set foot on these stairs since before Donovan's chemical cocktail. He ignores the jittery energy beneath his skin, the way his nerves hum with ill-contained anticipation. The dusty, familiar smell of high-ceilinged hallways goes a long way toward loosening a tightness John hadn't consciously noticed in his chest. By the time John reaches Finch's workstation, he's become a walking contradiction of tension and calm.

"Mr. Reese." Harold rises immediately from his chair on noticing John. He sounds pleased. When he turns to face John, one hand braced on the table beside him, his expression looks cautious but warm. He's glad John is here.

So's Bear, judging by the soft head butting against John's knees. John scratches distracted fingers through Bear's fur, but his own focus is all for Finch. There's no running away now. He's here. He's vested. Finch looks genuinely happy to see him, and somehow the reassurance is all John needs. He ignores the faint, stubborn voice of doubt at the back of his head and takes a deliberate step closer.

"Hey, Finch." It's a weak greeting, but Finch doesn't seem to mind. If anything the cautious line of his mouth edges into something closer to a smile. Even on a good day, Finch almost never smiles. John's chest warms at the sight.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Reese?"

"Been thinking about what you said." John takes another forward step, then a third. Putting himself close enough he could touch Harold if he wanted to, but for the moment keeping his hands to himself. "And I finally realized... You might be on to something after all."

"Is that so?" 

Bear's nose nudges at John's hand, but this time John ignores him, crowding forward into Finch's space. "Yes. So. Next question is, what do we do about it?"

"That depends on you, John."

A week ago, those words would have quelled John's momentum. But there's an undeniable lightness to them, an invitation he's finally listening for. Harold isn't hesitating; he's restating his offer. Putting the decision in John's court and waiting to see what he'll do.

John steps forward, catches Harold's face between his hands, and claims a first real kiss. He has to lean down to catch Harold's mouth, curl his extra height forward to press everything he's feeling into the kiss. Harold's mouth opens to welcome him. A moment later and Harold's hands are on him, gentle at John's sides, slipping beneath his suit jacket and warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

John's head is spinning by the time he draws away, and it's not for want of air. "We should probably take it slow," he says, sounding every bit as breathless as he feels.

"Of course," Finch agrees amiably. There's a spark of pleased amusement in his eyes. John can't resist ducking for a second kiss.

"Have you eaten breakfast yet?" Harold asks when John finally lets him go.

"No." John hasn't done anything today except think about Harold. Suddenly he's famished.

"I'm buying," Finch announces, setting his screens to standby and gathering his suit jacket. Bear darts forward, leash in his mouth, and Finch clips it to his collar before straightening. "Where would you like to eat?"

"Doesn't matter." John grins, following Finch toward the stairs. He feels lightheaded with relief and affection. "I'm good with anything."

\- — - — - fin - — - — -

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Storm Front [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10456503) by [DesireeArmfeldtPodfic (DesireeArmfeldt)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldtPodfic)




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